It Is What It Is
by RubyFiamma
Summary: [5980] [TYL] [Smut] It's like they're strangers because they only come together like this, words unspoken and feelings tossed to the floor like their shed clothes but one has always loved the other more than he'll get in return but for now it'll do. It is what it is.


**DISCLAIMER : I don't own any of the KHR characters (though I wish I owned Gokudera) , original story lines or art on the cover. Characters © Akira Amano, Katekyō Hitman Reborn!**

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**It Is What It Is**

**[5980]**

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Their hair is matted to their sweaty necks. Their faces are streaked with dirt and blood. Their bodies are slick and sticky with sweat, their naked chests are full of battle scars.

They're not sure why but they take comfort in each other, crashing into one another, lips locked, necks taught, with blinding lust.

They don't waste time kissing, biting and licking each other's salty flesh, tugging at each other's hair, heavy breaths escape moistened lips in short huffs.

They struggle with their belts, tug off their slacks, rubbing and stroking and groping each other's erections through cotton and silk fabric.

The Storm and the Rain _have_ to be together like this, it's the only way that they can feel alive after only dealing in death, to chase away the resounding crackling of dynamite and gunshots and bloodcurdling cries of fallen men.

It's the only way to say the unspeakable.

The smaller framed Italian man; angular and sculpted, alabaster skin glistening with sweat, falls to his knees and hooks his thumbs into the elastic band of the taller man's boxers, peeling them down his muscular thighs and legs. He licks a tentative stripe from his inner thigh to the base of his cock, moving it upwards to the tip where he swirls it around the head, stopping to flick his tongue in the slit where pre-cum now beads.

The taller Japanese man; with dark olive skin and hazel eyes, deep scar on his chin and large hands, grabs fistfuls of his lover's silver shaggy sweat soaked hair and let's out a breathy moan. He stares down at the man below him and watches him lick his lips before sliding them down on his cock. His tongue works quickly and so does his mouth, his silver haired head bobbing in a steady motion.

His caramel and chartreuse eyes roll to the back of his head, unaware that he's began to thrust into this hot wet mouth that encased his flesh, forcing the silverette to deep throat.

The silver haired bomber doesn't complain, he just grips his partner's thigh with his free hand as a tear forms in the corner of his eye. He draws his mouth back to tease with his tongue because he likes having all the _control_. He uses his teeth to gently graze the sensitive flesh, it twitches on his chin before he slides it back in his mouth and he repeats the process. He can somewhat sense his partner's impending climax, so he strokes and strokes until he's milking the hot, salty liquid from his cock to his mouth, greedily swallowing with little avail as some spills through his lips and drips down his chin.

The dark haired man with the lust lidded eyes calls out a name with such familiarity, it doesn't surprise his counterpart anymore. He pulls his lover up by his gorgeous silver hair to meet his mouth, licking his come off hislover's chin and sliding his tongue through red swollen lips. They make it to the bed where the edge of the mattress forces the taller man to fall back, taking the shorter man with him. His lover straddles him, grinding his silk clad ass against his already half hard cock, licking and biting his lower lip, kissing the juncture of his neck and shoulder, pinching the olive skin between his teeth leaving small crescent shaped marks on the already bruised and banged body.

After the cocktease, the fair skinned man slides down the darker skinned man's long and lean athletic body, taking him in his mouth once more but only for a little while before licking another tentative stripe down his scrotum to the space between two fleshy mounds. He encircles his tongue around the entrance, flicking his tongue over it before using one now spit slicked finger to probe alongside his tongue.

The man on the bed spreads his long legs feeling them tremble with delectation and he lets out a small but manly whimper as the silver haired fiend inserts three saliva coated fingers to stretch out his walls. He bites down on his knuckle to stifle anymore wanton sounds and clutches the silver hair with his free hand.

The fiend, deemed by his counterpart, withdrawals and stands, leaving the other empty and wanting and smirks at the hot mess before him. He slides down his boxers, the silk fluidly floating down the pale skin and pooling at his feet. He leans in and grabs his partner's legs and slings them over his shoulders, teasing his entrance with his nimble pianist fingers.

The raven haired man reaches around to dig his nails into the ivory buttocks despite the undesirable pull in his hamstrings as the smaller man enters him slowly, stopping half way to pull out and entering him again, pulling out when he gets half way. He grins smugly at his partner's pleasurably contorted face before taking pity on the pleas to just _fuck_ him, _fuck him_ **hard**. And so he does, thrusting in and hilting, earning a mildly low howl from the man below him. He smirks triumphantly.

There's a series of grunts and groans from either as the bomber slams into his partner, his features feral. His partner's insides are warm and tight and though there's no official relationship, no spoken commitment or vocalized rules, he knows his partner hasn't been with anyone else but him; and he, likewise.

The man with the scarred chin strokes his own cock while his _lover_ relentlessly pounds into him, his jutted hip bones rubbing his inner thighs and smacking into his ass. He loves that sexy smirk but chooses to wipe it off his face by hooking his fingers through the mass of chains that hang around his _lover's_ neck and pulling him in, feeling the pressure burn in his thighs, to crush their lips together.

They're already covered in sweat and dirtied from war but nothing tastes better than each other's flesh and tongues. Nothing feels better than their calloused hands caressing each other's skin. Nothing sounds better than each other's names being exhaled on uneven breaths. And _nothing_ is better than when they climax together.

He feels hislover's hot liquid fill him and is rewarded with the silverette's grovely, resonant voice barking out his given name laden with lust, while his own come covers their chests in a wet, sticky mess but neither of them care.

The silver haired male releases his tight grip on his partner's legs so that they splay open, allowing him to collapse between them, onto the other's heaving chest.

They lay entwined in each other's arms for awhile, greedily sucking in oxygen as if they had forgotten how to breathe. They're both on the brink of entering a euphoric coma, already high with the remnants of their raw, unbridled fucking.

But here is where they differ.

The Asian man lifts a hesitant hand to the silver hair, brushing it out of his lover's face and kisses his forehead. He has always felt more for this man, more than just desire and passion and the need to feel alive. He bites his lip to resist the urge to say what he wants because he knows the words will drive him away, leaving his hot skin with a cold chill and his heart feeling heavy and hollow.

The Italian has never really liked the idiot underneath him and can't really say how this thing between them happened but he knows now that the Asian man's touch, his lips, his body, his scent have all become a necessary addiction, despite his unnecessary want. He's not sure how he feels and he refuses to think about it because messes up the logic in his mathematical brain.

He flinches at the brush on the man's fingertips and lips on his forehead, rolling over to grab a cigarette off the bedside table. He sits up and flicks the top of his sliver plated Zippo, a gift from an annoying baseball idiot when they were teenagers, and lights his smoke. He doesn't know how to react to these moments afterwards and this is when he usually takes his leave.

He feels his partner trail his fingers down the planes of his flat stomach and he looks over at him. His partner's eyes are half lidded and ready for sleep and he wears a lazy grin.

The once pianist takes a long drag of his cigarette.

The once ballplayer has always been a little jealous of the cigarette, the way it gets to be pressed against his lover's pale pink lips, clenched between his teeth, always being able to touch him so_ freely_, something he so longed to do.

He opens his mouth to speak and he's afraid to say it but he feels like if he tells him often enough then maybe, _just maybe_ he'll admit the way he feels. It's been long enough. So he whispers,

"I love when we make love, Hayato."

A flare if red spreads across Gokudera Hayato's already flushed cheeks and he turns away from the gaze of his partner, who's lazily tracing his fingers along the angles of his hip bones.

"Che... don't call it that, idiot." His tone isn't abrasive.

"Then what is it called?" asks his partner, who's name is Yamamoto Takeshi, a name that Gokudera can easily scream when they're fucking, but not when they're like this.

Gokudera looks back at Yamamoto, his viridian orbs glowing against the soft pink hue in his cheeks. He blows out a billow of smoke that curl into rings from his pale lips forming an "O".

Yamamoto has a devilish thought, that he likes the way his lover's lips form that "O" and would love nothing more than to have that "O" wrap around his half hard cock.

Gokudera shrugs, chewing on his bottom lip and says,

"It is what it is."

_**Fiń **_


End file.
